Page 16 of Run Little Omega

"Mount you?" Mira whispers, clearly clueless about even the basics of what's coming.

I watch discomfort flicker across Flora's perfect features before her training kicks back in. "Yes. Alphas in rut prefer dominance positions—taking you from behind is most common for initial claiming. Their instinct drives them to pin you down, to assert control through physical force."

Her violet gaze sweeps across her audience, judging if they can handle more details. Something in their expressions must convince her to continue.

"When they enter you, they're already fully engorged—the rut state causes significant enlargement, far beyond normal size even for fae. The initial penetration can be... overwhelming. But it's the knot you need to prepare for." She makes a shape with her hands that causes several girls to look away. "It forms at the base and swells once they're fully inside you, locking you together while they release."

"How long?" someone asks, barely audible.

"Depends on the court. Winter Court alphas knot for up to an hour, their seed coming in waves rather than all at once. Summer Court knots are shorter but more intense—their body temperature rises so high during rut that skin contact can leave burn marks. Spring Court knots secrete mild hallucinogens through their skin, making the experience dreamlike but also disorienting. It’s only Autumn Court that prefers a quick knot and release, often followed by a second knotting in another position, or even a third."

She pauses, taking a delicate sip of her tea before continuing. "The knot itself isn't as painful as people say, as long you don't fight against it. Struggling only tears… things. Accepting is the safest thing you can do once claimed."

The irony of this statement—accepting violation as the safer path—isn't lost on me. But I recognize the truth in her words. She's describing survival strategies, not offering romantic advice.

"If you end up with a very large alpha, position becomes especially important," Flora continues. "Any movement during knotting can cause tearing, which is why it’s a good idea to make sure you can support your weight. Side-to-side positions are easier to bear if there’s… discomfort while you wait for the knot to subside."

Her gaze shifts suddenly, catching me watching. "You're Willow, yes? From Thornwick?"

I nod, keeping my expression gentle. "Yes."

She studies me with unexpected intensity, head tilting slightly. "Your frame is slight, even for an omega. If captured by a larger alpha, your greatest risk is pelvic fracture during forceful breeding. You'll want to position yourself to maintain some control over the depth of penetration—straddling positions allow downward resistance against their thrusts, though few alphas in full rut will permit such omega-dominant arrangements."

Several nearby tributes turn to look at me with a mixture of pity and morbid fascination. The irony—that beneath Willow's delicate appearance lies my blacksmith's frame, far more capable of withstanding physical trauma than most—sits bitter on my tongue.

"If pinned against a tree or on the ground," Flora continues, addressing me specifically now, "brace your forearms against their chest or hips to create space. Most breeding injuries occur when the omega cannot moderate the alpha's depth or force. And keep your neck turned even while presenting—a bite too close to major vessels can cause fatal blood loss."

She delivers this advice with the same tone someone might use to recommend a cooking technique. Her clinical detachment is both disturbing and necessary—she strips away any pretense of romance or dignity, focusing instead on pure physical survival.

"What about after?" asks another omega, barely more than a whisper. "If we survive the claiming, what happens next?"

Flora's composure slips for just a moment, a flash of genuine emotion crossing her features before the practiced mask returns. "If successfully impregnated, you'll be transported to the appropriate court for monitoring. The pregnancy advances unnaturally fast—three months rather than nine. Your body will..." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "Your body will undergo adaptations to accommodate the fae embryo's magical requirements."

The euphemism hangs in the air, not nearly enough to mask the brutal reality. Stories of omega bodies transformed beyond recognition during fae pregnancies circulate through border villages—skin stretching to translucence, veins turning silver or gold as fae blood replaces human blood, organs shifting to make room for offspring too large for human wombs.

"Most omegas don't survive the birth," Flora acknowledges, her voice finally losing its practiced serenity. "Those who do are rarely the same afterward."

Silence falls across our gathered circle, the horror of our futures finally stripped of ceremonial bullshit. I notice several omegas touching their stomachs reflexively, as though already feeling the alien presence that will likely eat them from within.

"Well," Flora says, brightening her tone falsely, "that's why we must each find our own way to accept what comes. There's no changing our fate, only how we meet it."

The way she delivers this platitude—with practiced inflection and a dismissive hand gesture—confirms my hunch that her entire presentation is rehearsed. She's been trained for this moment, coached to prepare her fellow tributes while simultaneously encouraging us to accept our fate rather than resist it. I wonder if she’ll be so calm when she’s the one being held down and forcefully penetrated by an engorged alpha cock, fangs in her neck and bruises on her skin.

A bell chimes melodically, signaling the serving of the final course. Attendants—all of them fae—glide between our tables, distributing bowls of something that looks like honey-sweetened porridge but smells faintly of herbs I recognize from Fergus's hidden stash. Breeding enhancers, subtle fertility stimulants to prepare our bodies for what comes next.

I take the bowl but have no intention of eating any of it. Instead, I carefully spill it on the ground as I move between tables, scanning the crowd then approaching the most vulnerable omegas.

Mira is the one I go to first. Her seventeen years hang around her neck like a death sentence. Too young to have developed any survival skills, too poor to have received protection or training. Her small frame practically disappears inside her oversized ceremonial cloak, dark hair falling forward to hide features still soft with childhood.

I settle beside her, putting my now-empty bowl down. "Not hungry?"

She startles like a deer, wide eyes darting to my face before immediately dropping. "I can't," she whispers, voice cracking. "Every time I try, I just... I can't stop thinking about what she said about the biting and the... the knot." Her voice breaks on the final word.

I nod, understanding completely. While the other tributes are distracted, I slip an iron token from my sleeve, pressing it into her palm under the table. "Keep this hidden against your skin," I murmur. "Iron disrupts fae glamour. If one tries to cloud your mind during the chase, this will give you moments of clarity."

Her fingers close around the token, eyes widening. "That's forbidden," she breathes, even as she tucks it into her bodice.

"So is surviving." I hold her gaze. "There's a safe haven near the northern ridge. Look for a waterfall that splits around a standing stone. Alphas can't claim within that clearing, though the protection lasts only twelve hours."

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